


Hell on Wheels

by memorizingthedigitsofpi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-03 05:05:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi/pseuds/memorizingthedigitsofpi
Summary: The Bentley isn't exactly a major character in Good Omens, but I thought we all deserved to learn a bit more about what the Apocalypse was like from its point of view.[A story in which a car gains sentience and helps to save the world]





	1. Chapter 1

It is often stated that pets, after a certain amount of time, begin to resemble their owners. Or vice versa. We've all seen a particularly poodle-ish woman or a man who resembles nothing so much as a fish. It is easy in those situations to imagine what sort of animal they might have as company at home. 

Spouses, too, tend to grow more like each other as the years pass. Nervous ticks change hands. Laughs begin to mimic each other. They grow slim or rotund on similar schedules. Their opinions on the world often merge to the point of being indistinguishable.

All of this is to say that force of personality is "a thing" - and Crowley, for one, had more personality than most. That's how The Bentley became, if not entirely sentient, then quite _considerably_ more aware than most other vehicles on the road. 

The Bentley had been purchased, brand new, in 1926. Crowley was the only one who'd ever driven it, aside from the factory worker who'd taken it off the line. It didn't know, back then, what it had to look forward to. Nor did it know what it had to dread.

Cars, you see, tend to do neither in their everyday existence. It's just not really necessary in between fillups and traffic jams and oil changes and the like. Generally speaking, they just sort of _exist_ and that's the end of it. The Bentley was the first car ever to have to face such things. All things considered, it did fairly well. 

The first decade or so passed just the same as it would have for most cars. True, it was driven rather more recklessly than others. And yes, it was a bit _odd_ that it never seemed to need petrol. And perhaps there was a certain _strangeness_ to the fact that the tires never wore thin and neither did the brake pads and the upholstery was holding up remarkably well. Those were things that _people_ noticed, though. The Bentley itself was blissfully ignorant of anything being even mildly awry.

If you can call a load of metal "ignorant."

* * *

It wasn't until the Blitz that the Bentley really woke up to what was going on. 

It wasn't even minding its own business, yet. It had no business, nor did it have a mind. It was simply parked, somewhat askew, outside of a church as its owner went inside.

At this point in time, it should be understood, the Bentley was aware enough of the world at large to know that it _had_ an owner. This was already several steps ahead of any of the other machines that had come off the same factory floor, but not quite so many steps as a typical newborn babe.

The streets were quiet, what with the curfew and all, until a sort of far-off whistling noise made itself heard. It wasn't the whistle of a man casually strolling down the street. Nor was it the whistle of a singer filling in the gaps in lyrics they didn't know. It wasn't even the kind of whistling that children do right after they first learn that's more air than it is whistle and feels distinctly wet. 

It was a whistle that even raised the non-existent hairs on a Bentley's metaphorical neck. 

It wasn't the whistle that really got things going, however, it was the mighty great _thump_ that came after it. 

[The author would here like to note that " _thump,_ " even in italics, is not a particularly eloquent onomatopoeia for the sound of a very large bomb dropping down on a very old church and blowing the entire structure into rubble. It is, however, the only descriptive noise they are willing to provide, so it is up to the reader to imagine what it might have actually sounded like in what we're choosing to refer to as reality.]

The noise was so loud and so close and so very _destructive_ that it provided a sort of jump start (if you'll pardon the pun) to the Bentley's consciousness. Suddenly it was aware of the fact that it existed in a world and that that world was on fire. As sentient awakenings go, it was a particularly rough one. 

It only got marginally better when its owner returned from the hollowed-out shell of the church and dusted a bit of plaster off of the hood. He got inside and settled into his usual seat and, in the first such occasion that the Bentley could recall, he invited a second person inside with him. 

Thankfully Crowley took care of the actual driving because the Bentley was, to use a convenient phrase, on auto-pilot. It had a lot to consider, now that it was able to consider anything at all. 


	2. Chapter 2

Imagine if you will a horrible situation. A truly _nightmarish_ scenario. 

You are surrounded by people at most points in your day but, no matter how much you reach out to talk to them, they are all silent and still and unresponsive. Even though they are zipping about the world just as you are, even though you hear them listening to music and humming along like anything, any time you try to have a conversation it's like you're talking to a brick wall. 

This was reality for the Bentley after it woke up. 

The first year or two of its consciousness was spent in confusion and loneliness. It tried to signal to other cars with its headlamps or with the particular tone of the revving of its engine, but none of them ever responded. It searched in vain for another vehicle that even knew it _was_ a vehicle. But alas, its world was populated with lifeless metal that couldn't talk back. 

Crowley, thankfully, talked all the time. 

Mostly it was to himself. He'd rant about the other demons or puzzle over something the angel had said or done. Frequently, he was working his way through some scheme or other as he tried to find the biggest impact with the smallest amount of work. He didn't seem to realize that all of the thinking he was doing _was_ work. 

But the Bentley realized that he quite often talked to it, as well. Sometimes he was urging the Bentley to go faster in order to get between cars as he passed them. Sometimes he was just saying how beautiful the Bentley was in relation to 'these boats they call cars these days.'

And the Bentley realized that it _did_ look rather different from other cars. It wasn't so obvious at first, but as the years passed it became more and more obvious that the Bentley had been built in another time. No other car looked quite like it. That was lonely too, at first. But then people would stop and stare and children would point it out and none of them were calling it ugly. They were all just astounded at how well it looked. 

The Bentley quite liked that. And that's how it developed a tendency towards pride. 

* * *

It was the 1950s. The Bentley was suddenly surrounded by Vauxhalls and Austins, Jaguars and even the occasional Morris. It sometimes felt a bit self-conscious about it's larger than usual headlamps or its long running boards, but Crowley always assured it that it was a much classier car than any of those new-fangled machines could ever hope to be. 

Speed limits rose as cars grew faster, and the Bentley noticed in its own way that its engine seemed to have undergone a bit of rewiring here and there. It had still never seen the inside of a mechanic's shop, but it _did_ always have the latest radio system. Crowley was partial to the new 'rock and roll' and the Bentley had to agree that there was a certain something to it. When the right song came on, it couldn't help but feel a little extra kick. A really good tune tended to lead to an extra ten miles per hour. 

Perhaps that was why Crowley, when he was particularly bored, used to engage in motorsport. 

He'd show up at a place like Silverstone, gently mock the racing car drivers, and inevitably wind up being challenged to a race. The Bentley found itself feeling amused when Crowley would pretend astonishment at such a turn of events. The feeling only amplified when Crowley agreed to the race, but only if he could drive his own car. 

The other drivers would look at the Bentley and shake their heads. "She's a lovely car," they'd say and the Bentley would rankle. "But she's a bit old, isn't she? Not that she isn't in beautiful condition, of course."

They'd be singing a different tune once the race was over. 

Crowley would pull the Bentley up to the line and then release his hold on it just a little bit. The Bentley would rev its engine and spin its wheels, eager for the battle ahead. The radio would switch on to Elvis Presley or Chuck Berry and as soon as the flag dropped, it would leave the other cars in its dust. 

If a car could have a smug expression, the Bentley would have had one. Instead, it just shone its lamps a bit brighter and parked in such a way that the sun glinted off its chrome detailing. 

It was pushing 30 years old, but it felt young and fast and free. Nothing could be better than this. Nothing.


End file.
